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Once upon a time there was a little girl.
She
lived in a chrome kingdom that was micromanaged by robot lords. The
king was a very particular person who had a closed mind. He used his
robot lords to keep the people of the kingdom from creating art or
anything of beauty, as he feared it could one day incite revolution.
The
girl's name was Pistis Sophia, but most just called her Sophia. Her
parents were quiet revolutionaries who never gave up the idea of
creation and art, so she was named Pistis Sophia, after the Angel of
Creation. It was a fitting name, for she spent most of her time
scratching small designs into the chrome, only to buff it out quickly
when a lord would come by.
Sophia had a hope that one day she
would be able to express her art freely. She grew into a beautiful
woman, and though her parents died, their ideas lived on within her.
She decided one day to appeal to the king to permit even small pieces
of art to be created for private purposes. The king became enraged and
frightened by her thinking, and threw her into the prison. The prison
was not clean like the rest of the kingdom. It was stone, cold, and
filthy. Dirt and grime clung to the walls. Sophia was sad, but then she
discovered a small fragment of metal in the filth.
It was
jagged, unkempt and uneven, but it had a tip to it, which was all she
needed. She began to quietly scratch designs into the stone; intricate,
detailed creations that truly lived up to her name. She drew a small
amount every day for a month; she remained undiscovered because the
only contact she had with anyone was for a guard to fling some food
through a small slot into the dank room every day.
Then
finally, she heard the turning of a key and the echoes of turning cogs
throughout the dungeon. The room was filled with light, and Sophia sat
in the center of her creation. Her murals covered the walls in every
space, flooding the guard's eyes with unimaginable beauty.
And the guard fell to his knees.
And he wept.
The
king heard this noise and came storming into the corridor. His face
red, his shaggy face trembling, he dragged the guard to his feet. As he
opened his mouth to shriek, he turned toward the dungeon. And he fell
silent.
And he fell to his knees.
And he wept.
For it was beautiful.
| | |
| Me: You know how people say life is like a river?
Erica: never heard that before in all my seventeen years, why?
Me: Oh. Well.
Me: THOSE PEOPLE ARE FULLA SHIT.
Erica: why would like be like a river in the first place?
Me: Because it's always flowing, supposedly. Always changing.
Me: But I disagree.
Me: Life
is like a calm pond. Content and unchanging, most of the time. And
every now and then a helicopter flies over and drops a fucking nuke in
the middle of it. and the tranquility ends for a period. In a loud way.
Me: but you know that it will be tranquil again soon
Me: So you try and stay there.
Me: But the goddamned radiation makes your skin burn.
Me: So
it becomes tranquil, but because you decided to stay there during the
nuking, you now have burned skin and possibly radiation poisoning.
Me: But it's worth it, isn't it?
Erica: i say no. haha
Erica: i wouldnt stay in that pond.
Me: But that's the only pond you know is tranquil.
Me: And you've been in poisoned ponds before.
Me: This one is clear, before and after the nukings.
Erica: but theres radiation and burning and pain. so how is that in any way tranquil for me?
Me: Because it rarely happens. It's not the pond that isn't tranquil, it's just that outside factors sometimes disrupt it.
Erica: eh well, thats life.
Erica: hahaha so i guess ill stay. yeah, maybe
Me: I'm staying in my pond. And over the past couple weeks, it got nuked. And I think it's starting to clear up again.
Me: God, I love metaphor. | | |
| It still occurs fairly regularly
Hasn't it always
The nervous disbelief
The attempted invocation of nonexistent
Destructive
Even self-destructive
Phenomena
Filling, filing one by one
Into the cognition
Of an overused mind
At no sign with no
Warning
Spontaneity seems to have lost its quixotic
Qualities
You've taken notice
Haven't you
And said nothing
Feeding the festering burn
A gangrenous sore
And you pour that tainted alcohol
In a frail attempt to heal
To heal
To heal
And you poison
A sterile hex
And it burns like hell
Like we will
I want my sanity back
Here with me
For now
I smolder
| | |
| Turn off that floor lamp, please
Too bright for now
With solemnity like a thin blanket
Surrounding, not warm
Almost intensifying the cold
Come, blind angels, to this place
In the shivering calm comes
Clarity
And the way icicles sound
Like chattering teeth sunk into water
Then, broken crystal stemware
Which will be replaced before next year
There's no hurry
The radio says
"'Tis the season to be jolly,
Fa la la la la
la la la
la"
Come, come contradictions, come
Start out just trying on, trying out ways
To bring about flame
Because the floor lamp is out
And the sun is melting on the horizon
Night is a dark, frightening thing
Wake in it and see
If possible, anyway
Narcolepsomnia
Call it that
And the sound is as cold as icicles
As cold as a thin blanket
Colder than contradictions
When sleep is inevitable
But completely unreachable
Distressed, yes
Restless at best
How unbecoming
How irresistable
Come contradictions
Come and turn out the light
| | |
| Everyone worth sleeping sleeps
And I remain awake
A soldier in the march toward an
Inevitable
Cliff
Memories that belong to someone else
Revive my own
Words that belong to someone else
Spur my own
And nothing will be just fine
Nothing will be just fine
My memory serves me well
When I want to write
Even when I don't
And it doesn't bother me
It's the present that
Kills me
When I start to recognize
Or think that I recognize
Similar patterns lining my path
March on soldier
March
And nothing will be just fine
Nothing will be just fine
Explosions!
My crackling synapse
Turns my thoughts against
My thoughts against
My thoughts
Just enough
To remind me
Of how wrong this is
How I'm marching toward my death
I am a felled firefighter in this clash
I am a triumph and I am
A disease
I am my own cancer
And nothing will be just fine
Nothing will be just fine
If I could take my leave
To the beaches
Where bodies line the shore
Like frays on the edge of
A worn page
I would lay there
In the sun
With you
And now I am not a soldier
I am a man
I am a boy
I am content
And something will be just fine
Maybe everything will turn out just fine
| | |
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